The Game Must Go On
by Xanthe Deluna
Summary: This is Nick's final moments as seen through his own eyes. If you've never seen the movie, it obviously contains major spoilers. R for language and violent themes.


Disclaimer: Obviously I don't own The Deer Hunter, I'm not the director. However, as always, I'd gladly own Christopher Walken   
  


Hope you like. Personally I thought Nick stole the show. *shrugs* Don't forget to review :)   
  
  
  
  
  


I sit in the back room, my hands lying palms up on the table. I close my eyes and let my head roll back to rest lightly on the chair. Fuck this. I sit up straight and stick the needle into my vein. I barely feel the prick, I just welcome the comforting feeling of the heroin. Hell, Saigon may be falling, but three things still ride strong: cash, women, and drugs. And a man doesn't need much more from life. 

I'm annoyed though. Sure, I do the same damn thing every fucking night, but tonight I'm nervous. I'm pissed too- the drugs aren't working like usual. So I take an extra dose- no harm in that. I let out a low sigh. Yeah, there it is..that familiar sensation of weightlessness, carelessness. Fuck yeah... 

The gun shot startles me out of my revere. That was my cue- time to once more fly in the face of death. I rise to my feet and chuck the used syringe into the corner. I momentarily regret my action. It'll take time to find it again. But, whatever. I pull the red headband over my forehead and step out of the little room. The cheers are loud from across the cluttered room. The gamblers love me: the odd Caucasian that had never and would never lose. 

I fiddle with my silver watchband and then slam the door shut with my elbow. Standing in front of me are two men. One is..fuck, what the hell is his name? The little rat bastard french pimp who brought me to glory in the first place. Julien? Yeah, that was it. With him is a stranger, a bearded man, who is smiling at me. Whatever the reason, I walk towards the game table. 

"Hey, hey!" shouts the stranger, an American, quite uncommon around here any more. "You alright?" He grabs my arm, looking into my eyes. I stare back blankly. What the hell..? "Nick, it's me!" Nick? Oh yeah, that's my name. How the fuck does he know my name? He takes a step forward, earnestly, but I take one back. "Hey, hey, hey!" I attempt to walk around him. I don't care who he is- I need to play. "What're you doing, Nick?" He moves to block me again. "What are you doing?" The bastard won't go away. For the first time in a long time, I feel aggravated. He's still looking at me. "What's a matter?" 

Julien takes a step forward, but the stranger shoves him away. Then he turns back to me, grabbing me by my collar and shoving me into a stack of crates. What the fuck is your problem? I want to scream, but it's really not worth the effort. I stare at him and he stares back. 

"You know me-- it's Mike. Tell me it's Mike." I just stare blankly. "Tell me it's Mike!" I can tell he's aggravated now too. 

"It's Mike," I repeat, but the words roll meaninglessly off my tongue. I distantly hope saying that will appease him. 

"Tell me it's Mike!" His voice is urgent, angry, and thoroughly unconvinced. 

"It's Mike." I shrug, trying to look cool, trying to convince him I understand. 

"Mike? Mike who?" I look away, trying to think up an answer that would make the man release me; the roar of the crowd is like an addiction. I have to-- I need to get away, but the stranger pulls my collar, jerking my head back up, forcing me to look at him. "Mike who?" 

"'Mike who'? I don't know!" What else does he want? I've never seen this man in my life! 

For just a moment he releases me. Then, eyes blazing, he shoves me roughly into the wall, his grip on my collar tighter than ever. "I came 12,000 miles back here to get you!" What did this crackpot mean? Why had he 'come back' for me? I try to pull myself from his grasp, but he's too strong and my attempt only makes the situation worse. "Don't give that to me, I'll fuckin'-" again I try to pull away. Doesn't he understand I have a game to play?-"don't do it! Don't do it-- don't do it. What's a matter with you? Don't you recognize me? Huh?" 

Of course not, ace! But he's searching my face for something that's not there. I'm not your guy, ace, isn't that obvious? 

Suddenly he grabs the sides of my head with both hands and presses his face closer to mine. When he speaks, this time he's calmer. "Nicky, I love you. What're you do-" Wait, 'love'? Fucking faggot. I take the wad of flem in my mouth and spit it out onto his face. He pauses mid-sentence, his eyes widening in shock. His grip on my collar lessens. That did the trick; finally I can get away. I'm wrong, once more. His grip tightens anew and back against the wall I go. 

"How can you fuckin' do this to me, you fuckin' screw?" He's livid, but careless, and I snake out of his grasp, backing away from him. I have to take my turn, and I'm in high demand. My nostrils flare at the scent of money. I take my seat across from my opponent, a stocky Vietnamese. He attempts a nonchalant glance at me, but I can sense his fear. In fact, I can almost smell it. You can't beat an invincible man. I put my arms on the table, palms down, and stare at him. More than anything, Russian Roulette is a mind game. I know I will always get an empty chamber and I know I will never die. 

But just as the betting begins, the beared stranger reappears next to me. I glance sideways at him, whatever the faggot's name is. Indeed, the heroin's not working as it should; I can't shake that feeling of annoyance. How can I concentrate if I'm not calm? 

Suddenly my frightened opponent gets to his feet and the stranger slides into the vacant seat. The on looking crowd reaches a frenzy: American vs. American. I try not to show any change in emotion, but I can't deny my sense of rising apprehension. Every nerve in my body is screaming for me to get up and walk out. To leave before it's too late. Who the hell is this man and why is he affecting me the way he is? The man stares at me and I stare back. 

"We don't have much time." Louder he repeats himself. His voice is urgent; he's frightened. Excellent. 

The referee hands me the pistol. The weight is familiar, comforting, addicting. 

"Don't do it," the stranger says suddenly. Why is he here if he doesn't want to win? But again, it isn't worth puzzling over. Besides, it's my turn. I swing the gun to my head and squeeze the trigger. Something inside me feels relieved: a blank. The betting starts afresh as the winners test their luck once more and the losers turn out more money for another guess. My opponent looks relieved I'm not dead. Maybe the stupid fuck doesn't know how the game works. 

When the referee offers the pistol to the stranger, the crowd comes to a complete silence. At first he doesn't accept; he's chicken shit. My eyes drop to the gun and then return to the stranger. He's got to play by the rules and it's his turn. Finally he grabs it. His eyes haven't left my face yet. Doesn't he realize he's staring down an immortal? 

"Is this what you want?" He brings the pistol up, aiming in the general vicinity of his head. His voice is soft. "Is this what you want?" I don't want. I don't care. Just play, ace. He brings it to his temple and lowers his eyes to the table momentarily. When he brings them back up even I can detect a change. No fear now, just sorrow. "I love you Nick." 

Suddenly I see him. This time he's without the beard. His face is grimy, but he's smiling reassuringly. I nod without thinking. But it's just a snapshot, come and gone. My conscious returns to the hot, smoke filled room. The man closes his eyes and pulls the trigger. Nothing- an empty chamber. An uncontrollable shudder passes through his body and he lets the gun drop to the table. Round one has ended. 

"Don't do it..." his voice is barely audible. This time he doesn't look at me. 

I, on the other hand, furrow my brows just slightly. How had I met this man before? What had he demanded me to call him? Mike? Mike, that was it! Mike...yes, but what does it mean? The name is unarguably familiar. I must have mouthed his name because he was staring curiously at me again. Curious, yet with a faint smile. 

"C'mon Nicky, come home. Just come home...home." Home? This is my home. This is my life. He must be mistaken. I have nowhere to go. I force myself to look away, but Mike won't give up. "Talk to me, Nicholas, talk to me." 

No. The game. I take the gun and bring it to my head. 

"Nicky, Nicky!" Mike's hand swiftly intervene's and grabs my hand, bringing it back to the table and trapping it beneath his own. He glances down at the table and spies the track marks on my arm. "What did you do to your arm?" The question's rhetorical, and I suddenly feel ashamed. But he doesn't dwell on it. He returns his eyes to my face, searching. Searching for some sign of recognition? "Nicky, you remember the trees? Do you remember all the different ways of the trees?" The trees? The trees...I liked the trees. Was I an asshole for liking the trees? No, Mike, we are all assholes. "Do you remember that? Do you remember?" He's smiling now, knowing he's triggering something; some unaffected portion of my psyche. "Huh? The mountains? Do you remember all that?" 

Of course. I remember the mountains...and the mist and the streams. I smile. Deer. I remember deer. I remember a control freak, a fucking maniac. 

"One shot." Why did I say that? It had something to do with the deer. Two is pussy. Play with three- it'll all be over. Then we can go, but will it be home? 

"One shot, one shot!" Mike looks triumphant. His grin is broad. One shot was relevant. He's excited, his hand loosens over mine. I smile back and chuckle. "Hey," he says with a laugh. 

"Yeah," I reply, still grinning. Indeed, one fucking shot in every game. But five are empty. I grab the gun back and bring it to my head. Mike's smile is quickly disappearing, replaced by a look of shock. He forgets the game must go on. Now, I am calm. I am invincible. I smile and squeeze the trigger. 


End file.
